Short+Fiction+2008

(Please indent paragraphs and have the 2nd line of the poem tabbed in then on the 3rd line tabbed twice continuing to step each line of the poem like stair steps accross the page)

An Eagles’ Heart by Shirley Crosby Eaglet was an unusual bird and all the other birds could see that he was special. He was hatched to proud parents who did their best to raise him to value pride and integrity. He would sit and preen his feathers as he watched the lazy river wind its way through the wilderness. When he was hungry and wanted to eat, his mother and father would lavish him with fish and field mice, for these were the things he liked best. Then when it was time to rest in the midday sun he would sing loud and clear so that all who could hear would be as happy as he. The other birds sang too, but none could match the strength and tone of his voice. He watched ever so intently as his majestic parents would glide high up in the clear blue sky. With barely a flap of their wings they would paint widening circles high above the nest for hours. Oh how he longed to soar on the breeze as they did, but he was not yet old enough for the lessons of flight. As time passed, the little eaglet grew bigger and stronger, and as he did his feathers changed to a beautiful brown. The grayish-white down that covered his body at hatching was almost gone. He wondered why his new feathers looked so different from his parents but when he inquired they would only say “all good things take time and hard work.” Now the time for learning to fly was drawing near and the nest that once felt big and roomy was becoming cramped. “Mother,” Eaglet chirped “is it time that I may learn to fly?” “No, my son,” she cawed “there is much to be learned from the nest before you are ready for flight.” “I have grown twice my hatchling size, and I have watched you and father as you fly. I know I could spread my wings almost as big as dad,” he insisted trying to convince his mother that he was indeed ready to soar. “Have you seen how careful I am when I get close to the side of the nest as I watch the lazy river twist?” “Yes, little one I have seen how careful you can be,” she replied. “And do you see how neatly I preen each feather? I would not embarrass you with untidy feathers,” he boasted. “You know your father and I could never be embarrassed by you, Eaglet,” mother assured him. “Then why? Why? Why?” He flapped “why can’t I fly?” “As I told you before you must have patience. There is much you must learn here before you can fly.” As all youngsters do he pleaded each and every day. And each day came the same reply. Until the day Eaglet said, “Look at all I have learned. What could I possibly learn now? I know how to preen my feathers, and how to sing. I know all about how the river winds its way through the woods, and I know how to balance when I look over the side of the nest.” “My dear son, first you must know that the learning is never done,” said father. “Every new day will teach you something so you must be prepared to broaden your mind. Why just today I found a new entrance to the field mice’ den. You see even when you grow up; you should keep an open mind and expand your knowledge whenever you can.” Mother agreed and soon began teaching her young-one important lessons. “Watch as we soar. Our eyes are on constant alert for any sign of movement from the land or water.” She prompted. “We must be sure to accurately judge the distance of our prey. If we are off just a feather when we go for a fish it could cost us a meal or we could end up in the water ourselves.” Each day the doting parents would show there inquisitive son more that he should learn. They taught him that being an eagle meant that he must be strong and brave, for many humans look to them for inspiration. The way Eaglet would one day bravely soar would show others that they could soar to great heights too, if they just believe in their dreams. Father taught him how important it is for an eagle to be loyal and trustworthy. One day Eaglet would have to pick a mate. The pair would need to devote their entire lives to one another the way all eagles do. Finally the day came for Eaglet’s first lesson. He had waited twelve full weeks and learned many lessons on everything from pride and responsibility to fishing and hunting. He had learned everything his mother and father wanted him to know. He had strong feathers and could even tear his own food now. Mother beckoned him to the edge of the eyrie which had been her home nest for many years. It was now ten feet across and twenty feet deep, the largest of any bird. “Every year your father and I add fresh leaves and twigs to this eyrie so that it will be as comfortable a home as possible, and now it is time for you to help.” “How can I help?” questioned Eaglet “I can’t reach the leaves of the closest branch even when I stretch my beak as far as I can.” “Then you must fly,” insisted mother. “Do you mean it?” crowed Eaglet “can I really try? I have dreamt of flying my whole life! ”  “Yes,” sang mother “you have studied your lessons well. You have watched us take off and land for many weeks and now you are fledged with strong feathers necessary for flight. It is time for you to use those things you have learned.” Eaglet spread his wings and hesitated at the edge of the eyrie for a moment. “You can do it,” prodded mother “all you have to do is believe in your dream.” At that, Eaglet leaned forward and closed his eyes. An odd feeling came over him as he flapped awkwardly then opened his eyes. To his surprise he was flying. He spotted a branch and tried to land but his aim needed practice and he overshot the mark, so he tried again. When he landed mother came to congratulate him. He grabbed a talon full of leaves and flew them back to the nest arranging them thoughtfully. He could barely contain his pride. He took off again and flapped a little less awkwardly to retrieve yet another talon full of leaves. Eaglet’s fledgling flight had left him exhausted. He slept through the night and woke famished. Mother coaxed him from the eyrie with a freshly fetched rabbit. He must now use the lessons of yesterday to fly for his food. He flapped his wings and flew to a ledge where the meat lay waiting for him. He ate his fill and found it difficult to lift his overstuffed body off the ledge. After some time he mustered the strength to return to the nest where mother and father waited. They were as proud as any parent pair could be. Each new trip from the eyrie took him further and further away but he always came back. He practiced and practiced and slowly learned to soar as his parents had taught. Eventually he learned to hunt his own food. Once he almost drowned when he misjudged the distance of his dive to snatch a trout from the river. He flapped hard to get back to the nest with dripping feathers heavy from his unexpected dip. Misfortune was his teacher that day and he was exceedingly hungry when mother at last shared a morsel of her meal. Three years went by and the youngster practiced till his cumbersome strife became graceful flight. His feathers again began to change. His head became the purist white, and just the tips of his lengthening wing feathers looked like they too had been dipped in a snowy pallet. He was almost an adult and at last he was looking more like the parents he had grown to admire. His stunning appearance was rivaled only by the beautiful song he sang. The splendor of his voice drifted on the wind and fell upon the ears of the most beautiful eagle he had ever seen. Swooning from the beauty of his song she vowed to live the rest of her life with him. Eaglet chose her as his mate devoting his life to her as well. She took Eaglet to her eyrie that her mother passed on to her. The eyrie had been started several generations earlier and had grown to enormous proportions. It measured nine feet across and weighed nearly two tons. It was a wonderful home for the loving pair. The next spring a speckled buff-colored egg was laid in the giant eyrie. Eaglet and his mate would soon have to teach their own young hatchling. They too doted over their egg which began to hatch 35 days later. When the young bird finally made her entrance, Eaglet began his task of teaching her from high above the eyrie. The pair painted circles in the sky lovingly learning together as they taught their hatchling to sing. // Eagles soar, eagles fly // // Climbing higher in the sky // // Taking flight through lifelong learning // // Lofty goals our knowledge earning // // On the wing with grace and ease // // Our song of hope floats on the breeze // // And as we fly high on the wing // // A peaceful song we choose to sing // // A prouder bird you’ll never see // // An eagle’s __heart__ // //          I have in me! //

(ANDREW: IF YOU CAN FIND A GRAPHIC OF A SMALL BLANKET, PLEASE INCLUDE IT UNDER THE TITLE.)

Frankie the Blankie by Kay Clark

Oh nooooo, Mom met the floor with a solid thump! Dazed,she slowly pulled herself into a sitting position. She looked at her feet. “Ah, not again,”she grumped. “It’s that cursed blanket.”

The blanket had been given to Jordan in celebration of his birth. He received several blankets: knitted ones, quilted ones, and some that were very, very soft, but this blanket, this nondescript, loosely woven blanket became his favorite. He named it Frankie.

Frankie quickly became a household nuisance. He spent his nights upstairs in Jordan’s warm, quiet bedroom with the corner windows. But. . during the day Frankie roamed the house. One might stumble over him in the dining room only later to see him relaxing on the sofa or on the floor “watching” TV. Frankie was always where he wasn’t wanted:UNDERFOOT!

“Jordan, please pick up your blanket”, Mom repeated patiently again and again. Then, she growled, “Jordan get that blanket off the floor!” Impatience reared its ugly head.

Frankie became a bone of contention: he was everywhere one walked; Jordan did not want him to be laundered; he was grimy, and his countenance declined with age and use. The family wanted Frankie to disappear or at least lounge in Jordan’s bedroom all day.

One Tuesday night, Jordan did not take Frankie to bed with him. Very unusual. Frankie lay forgotten, all alone on the living room floor, next to the spiral staircase.

CRASH, BANG, WHAT THA, CURSES! The family awoke. WHAT was that?” they murmured in trepidation. Dad got his pistol and with trembling fingers, Mom dialed to alert the sheriff’s office. WHAT had happened???

Slowly descending the staircase, the family saw a thin man dressed all in black, his skinny arms and legs entangled in the spiral staircase leading to the family room! The black ski mask he had been wearing was dangling from one ear and his scarred, shaved head and his pocked marked face plainly showed his distress. He was unable to move.

What the. . .? Who was this and how did he come to be so wound around the staircase? The explanation crept into their minds when they noticed Frankie lying smugly on the floor. Frankie had saved the family! Frankie who was always where he wasn’t wanted, protected Jordan and his family.

The stranger had quietly slithered into the house between the door and the frame, as he had done in so many houses before. Ready to perform nefarious deeds, he silently traversed the room looking for valuables. And then-- Frankie did what he was famous for: wrapped himself around that stranger’s feet and threw him down the stairs! Yea, Frankie!

The EMTs worked hard to disentangle the skinny burglar from the metal supports. They carted him to the ambulance as he moaned, cried and cursed in pain. How embarrassing for such an accomplished burglar, to be foiled by a blanket, a baby blanket at that!

Frankie was a Hero and the family never complained about him again. He had a long happy blanket life and many adventures. Frankie was loved and laundered so many times that today he is just a treasured remnant secreted in a special place. One day, in the near future, Frankie will be a Christmas present for Jordan, now a man. Won’t he be surprised?

(FLUSH WITH LEFT MARGIN, 2 SPACES BETWEEN PARAGRAPHS) Percy’s Tale of Woe

Related by Percy Written by Kay Clark

I relate my woes with chagrin. My therapist says it will be “therapeutic.” What humiliation I have endured! It’s damned unfair that’s what it is! Mind you, I have a business degree from Harvard, enjoyed success as an independent financial advisor and often scooted around town in my red BMW convertible. What a head-turner for the ladies! My ride will most likely be repossessed since I have been unable to work regularly and make the payments. Oh yes, I was also the captain of swim team. Unable to swim on a regular basis, I relinquished my position to another. My teammates were loath to see me go. I didn’t tell them why. . . too embarrassed. Now you may be muttering, “That’s a bit much for a cat!” Ah, but I am really quite accomplished, not an ordinary feline.

I was in high cotton: working, making money, motoring in my BMW, enjoying my status on the swim team. That is, until SHE brought that damn dog home! My life is ruined. I have been reduced to living on the cabinet above the refrigerator. How humiliating! Oh, I do get out some, to keep my dwindling appointments and drive around the city, but I have to plan it very carefully and go quickly when the “menace” is not around. When I do manage to leave my unhappy home, I stay away for days, sleeping in the car.

“She’s so cute! “ “You found a Yorkie?” “ How fortunate you are to have her.” “What a little sweetheart.” It sickens me to hear it. That “little sweetheart” has discovered all my hideaways and she checks them frequently to see if I am there so she can sink her “cute” little teeth into me. On one occasion, that dog came into the closet and bit into me. I fought hard, but to no avail. SHE came running, hearing my cries of anguish and fear. SHE grabbed that canine by the leg and pulled her out, thinking she would let go. Oh, no, not that dog. I came out with her; she would not loosen her grip! I lost a tooth in that fracas.

My therapist is of the opinion that I suffer from an Attachment Disorder. Perhaps I do. I fit the criteria: neglect, separation from primary caregiver, and a traumatic experience in my kitten-hood. My teenage mother gave birth to me and my four siblings in the summer of 1992. Her name was Fruitcake. Reflecting on my life, I now know she really was a fruitcake.

Fruitcake managed to cart off three of my siblings. That was heartbreaking for me, but it certainly lightened her mothering duties. Only Patricia (Fatty Patty) and I remained. Then, when Fatty Patty sickened and made her transition to the other side, Mom only fed me. Then off she’d go catting around. I had no affection, grooming, or quiet naps with her. I was emotionally abused. I did not realize how that had affected me until now. I am working to resolve my emotional problems and when I do. . . YOU BETTER WATCH YOUR BACK, DOG!

The Chair by Veronica Dillard It’s the shame of the nation, that sits alone in a darkened room, the chair of damnation.

It took three minutes. The prisoner passed through the steel door. His face was pale and expressionless as he shuffled to his doom. He eagerly fell into the chair out of weakness. The guards strapped his arms, legs, and chest firmly to the chair. Standing behind him were two ministers chanting a prayer in German. At the same time, one electrode was placed on the prisoner’s semi-bald head, and secured with a strap under his chin. A second electrode was placed on his right leg through a slit in his trouser. Then his face was covered with a black mask, as a benefit to the spectators, so they would be spared the contortions two thousand volts could do to a man’s features. The time was 8:44 in the evening, the wheel turned, giving a long drawn-out whine. The control panel lit up and drove the full charge into the prisoner’s body. His body went rigid, strained against the straps, and dropped as the whine fell. This was repeated a second and a third time. A wisp of smoke could be seen above his head. The current was switched off at 8:47. It took three minutes.

(PLEASE CENTER TITLE ) A Bat Named Ding and Bats: A Companion Poem by Vernette Chance (w ith editorial advice from Meg Rice)

The sky outside was still dark when Mrs. Case unlocked her office door. She turned on the light and set her bag and purse on the round conference table. She looked around at the messy stacks of books and papers and decided to get to work.

On the floor beside her desk was a box of books. She needed to return them to a man named Jeff who had loaned them to her students. First she needed to check to be sure all the books were there. There should be ten.

She took seven books out of the box and marked their titles off her list. She reached for the last three books, and as she bent over the box, she noticed something dark lying beside the books still in the box.

“What is that?” she wondered. “Did something fall from the desk into the box?” She looked closer. It was a shorter than a stapler. It was far too big to be a bug. She turned the box a little to get it nearer the light.

As she bent still closer, she realized the object was a bat, a small, velvety brown bat with its wings tightly folded so that it looked like a tiny brown mummy. Just for a second she felt afraid. But then, she reminded herself that it was a very small bat and that it must be frightened, hurt, or maybe even dead if it was lying in the box and not moving at all.

Carefully she slid the last three books out of the box. Then she gently folded the box flaps shut. She thought of taking the little bat outside, but she wasn’t sure that turning him loose as the sun came up was a good idea. She decided to take the bat to the principal’s office and ask for help.

Mrs. Graves, the principal’s secretary, said, “Oh another bat? Put it over here. I’ll call Mr. Reynolds, the biology teacher, and let him know it’s here. Mr. Reynolds is our bat man,” she chuckled.

Mrs. Case didn’t know Mr. Reynolds well, but she knew he had a reputation for being an encyclopedia of facts about furry, scaly, or feathery creatures. She laughed at Mrs. Graves joke. She felt the bat would be safe with Mr. Reynolds. At the end of the first class that morning, Mrs. Case was standing in the hallway when she heard a student say, “Yeah, it was really dehydrated. Mr. Reynolds gave it four dishes of water.” “He must be talking about the bat,” she thought. “So, it wasn’t dead, just dried out.”

Later, when she had finished her morning classes and had eaten her lunch, Mrs. Case walked hurriedly through the hallways. It was almost a block from her office to Mr. Reynolds’ room, and she wanted to get there before the bell rang so that she wouldn’t interrupt his class. She made it to the door with about two minutes to spare.

Mr. Reynolds turned and looked up as she came through the doorway. “I came to check on the bat,” she said. “Oh, Ding is doing fine,” said Mr. Reynolds. “You want to see him? He’s right here on my desk.” A ring of students were huddled around the desk. Mrs. Case moved in between two tall boys who were standing looking down.

The bat was on the desktop in a plastic jar that had wood shavings in the bottom along with a small jar lid full of water. “You named him Ding?” Mrs. Case smiled. “Yeah, you know, Ding Bat?” said Mr. Reynolds as he laughed at the joke.

“Is he all right? Is he injured?” asked Mrs. Case. “He’s just fine. See?” said Mr. Reynolds as he put his hand into the jar and stroked Ding’s back. The little bat opened his mouth and hissed. His tiny sharp teeth made him look rather scary.

“I’ll take him home tonight, and after I’ve fed him a few crickets, I’ll set him free,” said Mr. Reynolds. The bell rang. “Let me know which way he goes,” said Mrs. Case, smiling as she turned and left the room. She felt happy that Ding was alive and would soon be flying free.

The next morning after she opened the door to her office and put down her book bag and purse, she sat down at her computer and e-mailed Mr. Reynolds: “Did you set Ding free? Which way did he go?”

In less than five minutes an answer appeared. “Ding go southeast, ha, ha!” announced Mr. Reynolds making a pun of Ding’s name. “I fed him six crickets over the space of four hours, then took him outside and set him free! Thank you for rescuing him.” Mrs. Case chuckled, and all day she smiled as she imagined Ding winging his way through the night sky. (CENTER POEM BELOW STORY AND CENTER TITLE ABOVE POEM) BATS Bats are amazing; They have built-in radar, Sleep upside down, And eat while flying, Not even stopping to chew They live in caves, Barns, and trees. Sometimes they get Mixed up and try to Live in houses or schools. Then people scream, Hide their heads, And run about shrieking “Rabies! Rabies!” while The poor bats just want To fly away. A bat named Ding Found his way into My office and collapsed Inside a box of novels By Native American author Sherman Alexie. I didn’t scream Or cover my head. I moved his box To the room of a friend Who fed, watered and set him free.

 ( FLUSH LEFT THE TITLE WITH MY NAME UNDER IT. PLEASE BOLD THE TITLE. PUT THE AUTHOR’S NOTE IN BRACKETS AND ITALIZE IT. PLEASE LEAVE A BLANK LINE BETWEEN THE AUTHOR’S NOTE AND WHAT IS ABOVE IT AND BELOW IT. ALSO, PLEASE PUT THE AUTHOR’S NOTE IN ONE SIZE SMALLER FONT THAN THE TEXT OF THE STORY. PLEASE INDENT THE 30 PARAGRAPHS THAT MAKE UP THE STORY. I'VE NUMBERED THE PARAGRAPHS HERE FOR YOU TO EASILY SEE WHERE THE INDENTIONS NEED TO GO (1) HIS (2) “HI (3) “THAT (4) “YEAH (5) “WHAT (6) FINALLY (7) “I’M (8) “HEY (9) “WHAT’S (10) BURTON (11) “I’M JUST (12) JIMMY (13) “WHAT’S WRONG (14) “HE’S (15) “CANCELING WHAT (16) “OUR (17) BURTON BUTTED (18) “NO (19) “I’LL GO (20) AMANDA’S (21) “YEAH JIMMY (22) “YEAH, I HAVE (23) “WHY IS (24) “BECAUSE (25) BURTON (26) AMANDA (27) “MAYBE THEY’RE (28) “THEY’VE JUST (29) “BUT (30) AMANDA )   What’s Going on at the Burger Barn? by Melodie Harris  [Author’s Note: This is a chapter of a part of a book about Amanda's high school life].   His knee nudged her shoulder and gave her the accidental on purpose bump from behind. "Oh, hi Amanda," he said from around the corner of the freshman lockers. "Hi, Burton," she said with a sighing whine and refusing to look at him. Amanda squatted at her locker rearranging a stack of books. "That was quite a party last night, wasn't it?" Burton said trying to make more conversation. "Yeah, it was." She piddled with pencils in her Fairmont Eagles cup. "What about that costume Pastor Martin wore? I didn't know a preacher could have a sense of humor like that." Burton continued rambling on about the church social even though Amanda gave him no encouragement. It was no use, he thought, so he stopped for a response. Finally she looked up at him through her bangs. "I'm glad," she paused to squeeze out the words as if trying not to hurt his feelings, "you like our youth group, Burton." She suddenly stood up and looked over his shoulder. "There's Jimmy Peterson. He likes surfing the net like you do." The words seemed to stream out now. "You should get to know him better," Amanda said. Burton knew she was trying to pawn him off on Jimmy, but he was pleased she'd spoken to him at all. "I'm in the process of that," he said cheerfully. "We play soccer together after school." "Hey Jimmy," Amanda yelled as she waved him over. <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">"What's up?" Jimmy said putting his arm around Amanda like they were old pals--and they were. They'd grown up around the block from each other and had walked to school together ever since second grade. "Are you following my girl around, Burt?" he asked. <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Burton blushed and stammered, "Well, ah, I was just talking about last night. The party was great..." <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">"I'm just kidding, Burton," Jimmy said and punched him in the shoulder. <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Jimmy handed Amanda a red envelope. "This is from Greg," he said. Burton watched as Amanda lifted the flap and soaked up the smell of Stetson. Burton wished she was reacting to a note from him. Her face soon changed to disappointment. <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">"What's wrong?" Burton said. <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">"He's canceling," Amanda stated and folded the note slowly and put it in her locker. <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">"Canceling what?" Jimmy asked. <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">"Our date for tomorrow night," Amanda said. "We were going to go to the jazz band concert in the park. A bunch of kids from my church are in it." <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Burton butted in. "Greg doesn't seem like the church type of guy." Burton hoped Amanda would realize that he was. <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">"No, it's not that. He said he has to work." Amanda began flipping pages in a notebook looking for a blank page to write back to Greg. "But he worked all last week." <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">"I'll go with you, Amanda," Burton whispered and leaned closer to her. <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Amanda's head shot up. Her eyes met Jimmy's. He got her hint. "I will, too. That concert sounds cool," Jimmy said unconvincingly. <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">"Yeah, Jimmy, you come too. You've been waiting for a chance to ask out Valerie." <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">"Yeah, I have, but that's odd," Jimmy said, "because Valerie has to work too." <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">"Why is that odd?" Burton asked. <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">"Because she works at the Burger Barn," Jimmy said. Burton waited for more information. "That's—where—Greg—works--," Jimmy said chopping out each word so Burton would figure it out. <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Burton remembered the last time he was at the Burger Barn. A girl was working but taking a break--by sitting on Greg's lap in a booth. He also recalled Greg running his fingers through her hair. Was that girl Valerie? <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Amanda interrupted his thoughts. "Then why does Greg have to work? It only takes one of them to run the Burger Barn on week nights." <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">"Maybe they're seeing--" Burton began but Amanda cut him off. <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">"They've just put in computerized cash registers," Amanda defended her boyfriend, "and last week Greg had to train people." <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">"But how come I saw Valerie on Greg's lap?" Burton said. <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Amanda flung him a glare. "That must have been after the shift." Burton knew it wasn't; he swallowed hard.

(FLUSH LEFT THE TITLE WITH MY NAME UNDER IT. PLEASE BOLD THE TITLE. PLEASE INDENT THE 46 PARAGRAPHS THAT MAKE UP THE STORY. I'VE NUMBERED THE PARAGRAPHS HERE FOR YOU TO EASILY SEE WHERE THE INDENTIONS NEED TO GO (1) ALEX LEANED (2) “HERE’S FOR (3) “WHAT’D HE (4) “THREE (5) “THEY PROBABLY (6) BRADY GOT (7) “YEAH (8) “WHAT” (9) ALL SHE (10) “NOTHING (11) “ALEXANDRA (12) “I AM NOT (13) “I DON’T NEED (14) WHEN IN THE (15) ALEX (16) SHE SAT (17) “EXCUSE ME (18) “NO (19) “PIPE? (20) “YES, A MAHOGANY (21) PETE TOLD (22) “WHAT ARE (23) “A PIPE (24) “WHY WOULD (25) “SEEMS YOU’RE (26) SHE DIDN’T (27) “YOU KNOW (28) REALLY (29) “OH, LIKE (30) “DIARIES (31) “OUR GREAT-GRANDMA’S (32) THE NAME (33) “YEP (34) “MINE? (35) “GRANDPA SAID YOU WERE (36) ALEX GAVE (37) “MOM DIDN’T (38) PETE REFRESHED (39) “GRANDPA DELIVERED (40) ALEXANDRA LOOKED (41) SUDDENLY HIS (42) SHE LOOKED (43) “YOU SEE (44) ALEX LOOKED UP (45) “I GUESS (46) SHE PLACED A Matter of Life and Breath by Melodie Harris Alex leaned up against the pickup and fondled the teeth carved edges of her grandfather's pipe. She heard the clanging of farm equipment approaching, so she quickly stuck the pipe into her pocket. "Here's for your trouble," Brady said while tossing Pete some coins as he drove off with Grandpa's old plow. "What'd he give you?" Alex asked approaching her older brother cautiously. "Three silver dollars," said Pete rubbing muck off the dates. "Grandpa would say these were worth something." "They probably are," Alex said defending Grandpa's love of nostalgia. "Brady got the bid on Grandpa's German coin collection," Pete said while picking one up off the ground that he had dropped. "You want 'em, twirp?" "Yeah," Alex said. She put the coins in one pocket while her other hand reached in to check on the pipe in the other pocket. She froze. "What?" Pete asked. All she felt was a big hole. "Nothing," she said, swallowing hard. She looked by Pete's feet. Nothing. She looked behind her where she had been hiding out. There it was. A few pieces of gravel partially covered the pipe. "Alexandra!" he said while grabbing her shoulder and turning her to face him. "What's going on? You're up to something." "I am not," she snapped. "Just because you don't care about having anything that reminds you of Grandpa." "I don't need things to remember Grandpa," Pete announced. "You can have these too then," he said handing her Grandpa's German coins. Alex snatched the coins, and Pete headed towards the auction area. When in the clear, she quickly snatched up the pipe. "How dare he," she mumbled to herself wiping the dust off the pipe. She jammed the pipe in the good pocket in disgust. As she walked towards the house, she saw her big brother helping another neighbor load up some milk cans. It was amazing how nice he could be to other people. Alex had had the pipe for two months now. She had found the pipe on the ground outside the potting shed the day Grandpa died. She had always wanted to puff on it, but Grandpa would never let her. So, when she saw it, she took it. She was only 9-years-old, why would she think he'd had a heart attack and was in trouble? She sat down on the tire swing in the yard. In the distance she heard bidders yelling prices at the auction. Nearby Grandma reminisced with a neighbor lady. "I remember selling two of my best roosters to buy that pipe from Garton's Mercantile," she told the woman as they sat on the porch swing. Grandma patted her eyes with a hanky as the woman comforted her. "I just can't figure out where that pipe could be?" Grandma went on. "It has to be somewhere nearby. Did the dog bury somewhere?" "Excuse me, Grandma," Pete said while setting down a big army trunk. "You didn't want this sold, did you?" "No," Grandma said. "It's all I've got left of him to give your mother since his pipe hasn't shown up." Alex tightened her grip on the pipe in her pocket. "Pipe?" Pete asked putting on Grandpa's old army cap that he got out of the trunk. "Yes, a mahogany pipe I'd given your Grandpa upon his return from WW II in Europe. It's been missing since his death." Pete told Grandma he'd seen a pipe by Brady's pickup while loading up a plow. He said he'd go check it out. Alex jumped off the swing and skipped behind her brother. "What are you looking for?" she asked. "A pipe," he said. "Know anything about it?" "Why would I?" "Seems you're pretty anxious to help me look for it." She didn't say a word but stopped skipping. What if he knew? Could she drop the pipe without him seeing and act surprised to find it? "You know," he began speaking again, "that army chest of Grandpa's has a lot of neat stuff in it." "Really?" Alex said surprised at her brother's interest in Grandpa's junk yet trying to change the subject. "Like what?" She did not care to hear the answer. She had too much to think about. Maybe she should run back and put the pipe in the trunk. Or maybe she should confess to Grandma. "Oh, like his mother's diaries," Pete continued. "Diaries?" Alex said dropping the twig she had picked up along the way. "Our great-grandma's," he said. "You know, Alexandra's diaries--the one you're named after. Grandpa read me passages from it that she wrote during his time in the war." The name was no news to Alex, but the diaries were a revelation. "Yep. Grandpa said those diaries would be yours someday," Pete went on. "Mine?" Alex asked. "Grandpa said you were the only one that put up with his story telling so you were to get those diaries of the person he named you after." Alex gave her brother a perplexed look. "Mom didn't name you, twirp," he said looking in her eyes. "Grandpa did." Pete refreshed her memory of her birth during a snow storm when Grandpa was alone with Mom. Alex grew impatient and kicked dirt as they walked. This was not news. Get to the point. "Grandpa delivered you. He helped give you life," he said while sitting down on the tail gate of a pickup. "You were a breech baby, twirp," he said. Alexandra looked at him to provide a definition. Suddenly his voice changed. He looked like a WW II version of Grandpa. "The umbilical cord was around your neck," he said speaking slowly and delicately now. "You were blue when you came out." She looked down at the stirred up dirt and loosened the grip on the pipe in her pocket. "You see, Alex, Grandpa breathed life into you and got you breathing again. His breath, tobacco and all, gave you your life." Alex looked up to see an open hand silently asking for the pipe. She found its rounded end and nudged the thing out of her pocket bit by bit. She studied it then looked at the compassionate young man she now saw before her. "I guess there's no real need for me to keep something that I've had all of my life, is there?" She placed it carefully in his outstretched hand. His other hand reached out to grab hers. They walked back to Grandma.

( FLUSH LEFT THE TITLE WITH MY NAME UNDER IT. PLEASE PUT THE AUTHOR’S NOTE IN BRACKETS AND ITALIZE IT. ALSO, PLEASE PUT THE AUTHOR’S NOTE IN ONE SIZE SMALLER FONT THAN THE TEXT OF THE STORY. PLEASE LEAVE A BLANK LINE BETWEEN THE AUTHOR’S NOTE AND WHAT IS ABOVE IT AND BELOW IT. PLEASE INDENT THE FIFTEEN PARAGRAPHS THAT MAKE UP THE STORY. I'VE NUMBERED THE PARAGRAPHS HERE FOR YOU TO EASILY SEE WHERE THE INDENTIONS NEED TO GO (1) THERE’S (2) “HEY (3) “YEAH (4) “COME (5) YOU MEAN (6) “HOW ABOUT (7) I TOLD (8) BUT I REALLY DON'T THINK (9) THAT GETS (10) “DAMIEN (11) APPARENTLY (12) THE DOOR (13) “…30 MINUTES (14) “YES SIR (15) “OUT OF ) To the Beat of a Different Drummer by Melodie Harris [Author’s Note: This is a chapter of a part of a book about Damien, a middle-school aged boy who talks to an imaginary friend. Read the other chapter entitled, “Dawdle, Dally, & Delay” to learn more about Damien and the elf on his right shoulder]. There's Mr. Pravoli, chewing out Greg Brenner, the bass drum player--or should I say, bass dumb player, breaking the music stand. Greg is so stupid. Yesterday he got caught cheating in English. I may be flunking three out of five classes, but that's one thing I don't do--cheat. Another thing is homework; I have more important things to do. "Hey, Damien," said Aaron Cramer, the one boy in my eighth grade class who dares to recognize my existence. "Yeah, what is it?" I said not taking my eyes off Pravoli. One never knew who the conductor would pounce on next. "Come to our science club after school today and enter the mouse trap contest with me," he said. He tried to look like he wasn’t desperate for a partner. You mean you want me to do all the work and you want to get all the credit, I thought. "Can't tonight," I said. "How about in the morning?" Aaron asked while he flipped through my //Games// magazine. I told him no, snatched my magazine, and sat on it. Suddenly, Pravoli yelled at the woodwinds, and Aaron scampered away in fear. What a sissy, I hissed to the elf on my right shoulder. What boy in his right mind would play clarinet anyway? I felt bad snapping at the buzzard, so I made a paper airplane note telling him I’d think about it and launched it up to the woodwind section. I really didn't feel like getting up early to come to this crummy place, but the kid needed my help, that’s for sure. But I really don't think school is all that crummy. It's better than being at home with Mom who is always having some kind of prayer meeting begging the Lord to save my jailbird brother, Baker. That gets old, so I go out to the tree house with my dog Jenny and practice her tricks. I'm going to enter her in the talent show at the community pageant next month. The powers that be will try to find some excuse to stop me. Like that speaking contest last fall. The principal said they had to let me enter even if my grades were low. And ha, ha--I won the thing with my speech, “The Politics of //Animal Farm//.” No teacher congratulated me, except Mrs. Hardgrave, my art teacher. She's the only one that seems to like me. Trouble is, all the kids hate her, so what good is that? "Damien!" Pravoli's smoker-voice crescendoed across the band room. "My office. Now." A couple of trombone players chuckled as I skid into his terminal. Apparently he intercepted that paper airplane note. It will cost me another 30 minutes in disciplinary detention with lady Hardgrave. She's usually in her room after school and not gossiping with the other teachers in the hall. She'll listen to my plans for Jenny. Maybe she'll volunteer to be my pre-performance audience. Then I'll show her my comic strip. The door slammed, and I nodded as he droned on about me ending up like my convict brother. Just because my mom had to come pick me up from the last music contest after I’d pulled down Greg Brenner’s pants on the bus doesn't make me a potential inmate. Don't I always bring home superiors for this man? I mean, I deserve some recognition for my musical talent, but no, I'm Baker's little brother-- "...30 minutes. Tonight," he said handing me the detention slip. "You got that, Damien?" "Yes sir, I got it." "Out of my office," he announced and motioned his arm as though cutting off his orchestra. I marched, Hitler style, to my chair and sat straight as a military man. I played brilliantly just to make up for my misdeeds, but Pravoli didn't seem to notice.

( FLUSH LEFT THE TITLE WITH MY NAME UNDER IT. PLEASE BOLD THE TITLE. PUT THE AUTHOR’S NOTE IN BRACKETS AND ITALIZE IT. PLEASE LEAVE A BLANK LINE BETWEEN THE AUTHOR’S NOTE AND WHAT IS ABOVE IT AND BELOW IT. ALSO, PLEASE PUT THE AUTHOR’S NOTE IN ONE SIZE SMALLER FONT THAN THE TEXT OF THE STORY. PLEASE INDENT THE FIVE PARAGRAPHS THAT MAKE UP THE STORY. I'VE NUMBERED THE PARAGRAPHS HERE FOR YOU TO EASILY SEE WHERE THE INDENTIONS NEED TO GO (1) DAMIEN (2) "GET GOING (3) RUGGED (4) HE TOSSED (5) I'M GOING.) Dawdle, Dally, & Delay  by Melodie Harris  [Author’s Note: This is a chapter of a part of a book about Damien, a middle-school aged boy who talks to an imaginary friend. Read the other chapter entitled, “To the Beat of a Different Drummer” to learn more about Damien and the elf on his right shoulder].  Damien wiped the wetness from his thin, mumbling lips with the end of his olive green T-shirt. "Bring money for treats during movie," he said turning his head as if talking to an elf on his right shoulder--his shoulders sloped. His smirk widened when a teacher interrupted his loafing by the water fountain. "Get going, Damien," she said. The 12-year-old slid his science book to his side, stood military-like, and slid, surfboard style, to his locker. A jumping jack performance dropped his book. Damien spun his combination and stood stiff with hands folded on a sturdy chest. His small, close set, green eyes scanned the cluster of books before him. "Art class," he said with a hiss to himself and the elf. Rugged workbooks, loose leaf paper, and wadded paper balls tumbled out of his locker. A chewed‑up pencil emerged from under his brown hair that touched the tip of his ear. He tossed the pencil on the top shelf and knelt down before his locker as though worshipping at an altar. He plopped his science book on the crooked stack in his locker and yanked out his art book and slapped it to the top of the stack. His magic‑markered hands shuffled through graded papers until he found his sketch book. Before tugging at the pocket of his no-name jeans, he scratched at a stain on his left thigh. He sniffed his fingers and mumbled, "Ice cream." He tossed some of the balls of paper into a nearby trash can. Others he delivered with pigeon-toed baby steps to the can while he transformed the sheets into airplanes and sent them gliding to their destination. Damien poked his head in his locker. Out came a series of textbooks, the binding bulging with paper stuffed in each one’s middle. The plop of the books blew a few spit wads by his muck covered Nike shoes. While scooping up the wads and jamming them into his wrinkled T-shirt pocket, Damien seemed to notice his hands for the first time. As he stretched out his arms to inspect his magic marker tattoos and his raw, nail bit fingers, another teacher charged toward him and said, "Damien!" "I'm going. I am going right now," he declared enunciating every syllable. Damien's smirk had disappeared. He stuffed the sheets on the shelf, seized his sketch pad, and marched to the door. He did an about face, slid back to his locker, and slammed the door without taking anything out. "Cripes," he said and swirled the combination lock again. His art book was again on the bottom of the heap. He pried it out, snatched his drawing pencils, and gently closed his locker. The breezeway doors were closing. His shoulders moved like a teeter-totter so he could slither through. Once he'd made it, Damien drudged himself down the hallway while mumbling, "Art class, art, art class," to the elf on his right shoulder.

(I have separated the three pieces with three hyphens - the actual method of seperation is unimportant, so long as they are not confused as three pieces by different authors)

Three very, very short stories by Zachary Lawrence

I am a consequence of the universe. There is nothing to fear – your transition will be easy.

- How do you know?

I know all. Many have told me their stories as I took them.

- Then, did you know that I am an Olympic champion in Karate?

Can we not do this? I have other appointments.

---

There were times when the blue police box was a source of amusement; others, when it was a source of disdain and disgust. Posted bills and graffiti covered its weathered exterior. It hadn’t worked for decades.

The day the sun went away, the box's light flashed. Nobody was watching when it disappeared.

---

The chattering heads marched in ripples. Forward, to the sides, flanking the crowd. Fog surrounded us in tentacles; the bodies rose to the top; floated above us, leaves on glass.

The storm’s coming down, Joe Blow, my one shoulder yelled. Fight it, Fight it, the other chanted. There’s someone behind you, said my ears.

I saw the stars and the planets, the core of the earth and the surface of the sun. I was awake when I hit the ground

A Scheme by Zachary Lawrence

Shiver. Shudder, glance around. My hand shook before I knew where it was going. Pencil, fingers, the line I made was cracked and electric. I looked everywhere but down.

What’s two plus two? Where was the Byzantine empire? Who was the fourth president … of Switzerland? Does Switzerland have presidents, or kings? Or is it just a constitutional protectorate. Wait, does that matter on a math test?

I looked straight up at the ceiling, panting for breath. My eyes darted up and to the right. A scheme was swiftly materializing.

I wrote. Furiously, esoteric shades of meaning and knowledge in every form, every number, every symbol. The formula for life, the formula for love. Long division and calculus. Art in numbers, the world in figures. I signed my name. I even put the little line under it, like an autograph.

On Monday, when Mr. Khan gave us our graded tests, my answers were wrong. Beautiful, but so wrong that angels could have cried. In training camps under Stalin’s Russia, people were shot for being this wrong.

My eyes narrowed – my eyebrows rose. The corners of my mouth turned slowly, slowly up. This was going to work.

When the last bell rang, I stood, composed, and stepped deliberately to the desk. Mr. Khan didn’t look up at first, but I could see the hair on his neck bristle. I get that a lot, actually, but I still noticed.

//Yes?// he sighed.

I would like to discuss my test.

//Which part? The part where you divided by zero, or the part where you used Hebrew letters for your variables?//

Oh, you noticed those, huh?

Mr. Khan locked his eyes on me. His brow furrowed. His glasses slid to the knob at the end of his nose.

Well, I was just thinking about some of my answers.

//Well, that’s good.// Mr. Khan’s voice turned down at the end. That meant something.

I realized that I was getting confused. See, I’d stayed up late. Really late. I’d been studying hard for your test. Yours first, of course, then my class on mysticism in history, and we were reading a lot of Kant and Pythagoras, and some Kabbalah. That sort of stuff.

//If you read Pythagoras, didn’t you remember that theorem of his?// Mr. Khan asked.

I laughed, more breath than voice.

Anyway, I think I got confused. You know when you care so much about two subjects, you start seeing connections? Well, I love math. I love everything about math.

I could feel my pupils dilate. And I love my philosophy class. And I could just see the lines of connection blurring in my vision when I was taking your test. I think I just was overwhelmed with, you know, the mystical importance of what we were doing.

Mr. Khan looked. His face remained still, save one nostril flared out. I could feel God laughing at me from that nostril.

//So?// he asked.

So, well, I stammered. Could I maybe try the test again. Or just make some corrections, or –

//No.//

I stopped. I scowled. Could I maybe write an essay for some extra credit, perhaps to further illustrate my –

Mr. Khan looked down. //No.//

Well, see –

//No. Aren’t you going to be late for your philosophy class?//

I looked down, saw my toes wiggle, felt my body rock.

This was going nowhere. My feet turned shiftily, and pulled me out the door. Philistine. <span style="COLOR: rgb(0,8,255)">